"Did ye think this was a city park?" said Rifle-Eye disgustedly.
"Well, I never saw a trail before that you couldn't see," responded Wilbur defiantly.
The old hunter stopped his horse.
"Turn half round," he said. Wilbur did so. "Now," he continued, "can you see any trail through there?"
The boy looked through the long cool aisles of trees, realizing that he could ride in any direction without being stopped by undergrowth, but he could see nothing that looked like a trail.
"Now turn round and look ahead," said the hunter.
The moment Wilbur turned he became conscious of what the old mountaineer wanted to show him. Not a definite sign could he see, the ground was untrampled, the trees showed no blaze marks, yet somehow there was a consciousness that in a certain direction there was a way.
"Yes," he said vaguely. "I can't see it, but I feel somehow that there's a trail through there." He pointed between two large spruces that stood near.
The hunter slapped his pony on the neck.
"Get up there, Milly," he said, "we'll teach him yet! You see," he continued, "there ain't no manner of use in tryin' to see a trail. If the trail's visible, the worst tenderfoot that ever lived could follow it. It's the trail that you can't see that you've got to learn to follow."